Prince of Dreams (Stokehurst #2)(58)

Nikolas snorted sardonically. “Really? Then why are you blue and trembling?” He lifted the side of the fur and motioned for her to join him. “Your attack of modesty is unnecessary. I'm hardly going to seduce you with my steward sitting nearby—and in any case, we're going to be married in a matter of hours. Come sit next to me.”

“I'm not cold,” she repeated stubbornly, her teeth beginning to chatter.

“Fine. Don't blame me if you freeze to death before we reach home.”

“There is less danger for me out here,” she replied, “than under there.” She pointed to the lap robe significantly, then turned away to indicate the argument was finished.

Sidarov watched the exchange with speculation and a surprising trace of satisfaction. “You appear to have chosen well, Prince Nikolai,” he remarked. “A strong and spirited woman is what every man should marry.”

Nikolas gave him a sour look and didn't reply.

As soon as they reached the Angelovsky estate, Nikolas was separated from Emelia by a troop of servants bent on making preparations for the approaching ceremony. He secluded himself in his suite of rooms and demanded to be given a bottle of vodka and a tray of zakuski. The refreshments were brought to him speedily, along with a warning from Sidarov not to become too drunk before the wedding.

Nikolas wandered around the bedchamber, swigging vodka from the bottle in his hand. He could hear sounds coming from the rooms below—scurrying feet and rapid voices, an occasional burst of excited laughter. His mood worsened with each minute that passed.

Investigating his surroundings, Nikolas stared closely at the bed hangings, fashioned of precious Byzantine silk and bordered with gold thread and pearls. A huge Cyrillic A was embroidered in the center of the silk coverlet. The carved wooden chest in the corner contained a set of pistols with gold handles and dragon-shaped triggers, a pile of rich fur blankets, and an enameled bow case and gold quiver. None of the objects was familiar to him.

As Nikolas closed the chest and tilted the vodka bottle to his lips, the dull gleam of a painting on the wall caught his eye, the smoky antique gold and the brilliant red glow of a small icon. As he stared at the painting, the gulp of vodka slid down his throat in a painful lump. He had seen the icon before, thousands of times. It had hung on his nursery wall in childhood. He had moved it into his bedroom as an adult, and he'd brought it with him to England after he had been exiled from Russia. “My God,” he said aloud, stumbling as he walked toward the icon. “What is this doing here? What's happening?”

The elegant design was of the Prophet Elijah, surrounded by a brilliant ruby cloud as he ascended to heaven in a chariot of fire drawn by flame-colored horses. Nikolas had always cherished the icon for its vivid color and intricate brushwork. He had never seen another like it.

Recognizing the icon, solid and unmistakable, suddenly made it seem as if his other life, the real one, were gone for good. “I don't want this,” he said in a whisper that matched the intensity of a scream. “I didn't ask for it. I damn well didn't choose it!” He gazed at the red circle of fire, backed away, and hurled the vodka bottle directly at it. The bottle broke as it struck the icon, knocking it from the wall.

Immediately a servant knocked at the door and asked if everything was all right. Nikolas answered with a forbidding growl, and the servant retreated hastily. Standing over the fallen icon, Nikolas stared at the deep scratch that had just been made, marring the edge of the red cloud. Would that scratch be there a hundred years from now? A hundred and fifty, perhaps more?

What if all this was real? Perhaps he had died and gone to hell. Perhaps hell was having to witness the wretched history of his family from the eyes of his own ancestor.

A new thought occurred to Nikolas, and he felt his knees turn to rubber. He made his way to the bed and sat down heavily. If he really was Prince Nikolai, about to marry a peasant woman named Emelia, then history was yet to be made. Their son would be Alexei, and his son would be Sergei, followed by Sergei II and Dmitri…“And then,” Nikolas said aloud, “I'll be born. And Mikhail.”

If he could keep from having a child with Emelia, then the Angelovsky line would be broken. The abuse and murder of Mikhail wouldn't occur. And Nikolas's own sinful, pain-filled life would never take place.

A tremor of horror went through Nikolas's body. Perhaps he had been given the power to keep himself from ever being born.

In spite of Sidarov's insistence, Nikolas didn't bathe before the wedding, or shave, or even change his clothes. Barricading himself in his room, he drank steadily in an effort to make the nightmare disappear. It was impossible for him to go through with the ceremony. He might be many things, but a bigamist wasn't one of them. He wasn't Nikolai the First, he was Nikolas Dmitriyevich Angelovsky, and he belonged in London, in the year 1877…with Emma Stokehurst.

Sidarov's muffled voice came through the door. “The guests are here, Prince Nikolai. The ceremony will begin as soon as you decide. You won't keep them waiting long, will you?”

“I'm not going to marry anyone,” Nikolas said from his sprawled position in the chair.

There was a lengthy silence, and then Sidarov replied in an agitated tone. “Very well, Your Highness. But you must inform the guests—and the bride—yourself. I refuse to do it, even if you turn me out into the streets and I must die a miserable, frozen death. No, I absolutely will not tell them.”